


Volume Three

by panchostokes (badwolfrun)



Series: Prompt Fics [6]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Angst, Buried Alive, Episode: s05e24-25 Grave Danger, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nick Stokes Whump, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post Grave Danger, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-25 21:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21362815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfrun/pseuds/panchostokes
Summary: An unexpected turn of events in a funeral home uncovers some hidden details to Nick's kidnapping, two years after the case had been closed.
Relationships: Gil Grissom & Nick Stokes
Series: Prompt Fics [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540795
Kudos: 13





	Volume Three

**Author's Note:**

> this started out from one of the prompts sent to me by let-the-whump-commence, and I decided to work it into a project I've had in mind for a while now...What if there was a third accomplice involved in Nick's kidnapping?
> 
> (also I just wanna bury Nick alive again NBD)

It should have been an open and shut case. 

_No pun intended, _he will think darkly to himself later that night as he lies in his bed staring helplessly at the ceiling above him, replaying the events in his head, thinking about what he could have done better.

Because really, he should have known better.

It was a situation all too reminiscent of a past mistake.

One that almost got Nick killed. Shot and buried underneath bleached floorboards, for his remains to be found years later by another pair of CSIs. So the cycle would continue, a mentor and mentee engaged in a constant battle for mutual trust and validation.

He had left Nick alone in the funeral home to finish collecting evidence, intended on riding back with the patrol car with the suspect cuffed in the back seat. 

Again, all too reminiscent of another time, another place. 

But this time, instead of a rebuttal from the suspect that reveals to Grissom that they were bringing in the wrong man, it was just the sheer luck of realizing he forgot something that brought him back into the funeral home, and Nick was nowhere to be found.

* * *

Nick places a lot of trust, more than he really should have, on the fact that there was an officer posted on the outside of the funeral home. He only has this trust because Jim Brass spent a lot of time reassuring him that he would never be left alone at a crime scene _ever again._

It sounded more like a threat than anything. Not directed towards him, of course, but towards the officer who was no longer allowed to be posted at crime scenes where Nick’s name was even _mentioned. _

It’s been almost two years since the incident, anyway. No need for alarm. He would finish up the routine processing of evidence, drop it all off at the lab, and meet Grissom in the interrogation room to grill the suspect. 

It wouldn’t be until _much _later that he finds out, the officer who was posted outside of the funeral home was whisked away on an impromptu on-foot pursuit of an unrelated suspect to the case he was working on.

Leaving Nick completely vulnerable, ripe for the taking. 

Or rather, _under_-taking.

He hears a sound that indicates to him that someone entered the room. He thinks it’s Grissom, who forgot to tell him something, or realized he forgot his kit in the chaos that led to a suspect being arrested on the spot. 

The fact that they already such a promising lead before Doc Robbins could even cut open the body should have been the first indication that something is _terribly _wrong. 

“Forget something there, boss?” he jokes without looking up as he takes a swab of a dried patch of blood. Meant as an invitation to open up that, “yes, Nick, I know I’m not all mentally here right now because one of our own just left without notice and my heart is just _slightly _broken,” he realizes too little too late that someone who is definitely _not _Gil Grissom is standing directly behind him. Hot breath on the back of his neck makes his skin crawl, his fingers instinctively close up the swab before placing it on the ground as he’s grabbed by the hair of his head and pulled upwards from his crouch. 

He reaches for his radio, but his hand is swatted away with ease, his head twisted to look behind him; a large, imposing man–the one who probably digs the graves and handles the heavy work in moving the caskets has a twisted smile, a dangerous gleam in his eyes as he uses his free hand to wrap around Nick’s neck. 

Nick’s eyes bulge as he’s lifted into the air, his feet dangling, his hands grasping at the large, thick fingers wrapped around his windpipe. His fingers try to pry the suffocating grip, but it just tightens as the man carries him into another room. 

He shuts his eyes to concentrate on his continuing attempts to free himself, directs his swaying feet at the man’s body, but the man just shakes him with a stern frown in return. He flails his arms around, his fingers brush up against the man’s face, he gets the idea to try and scratch at him, get some epithelials under his fingernails–he wonders at one point he stopped fighting and started thinking about what evidence he’d be able to collect.

He doesn’t even have time to register the surroundings of the room as he’s carried over to an open casket. 

He’s surprised his eyes aren’t completely out of his sockets at this point.

“No, _please, _not-not there–” he chokes out in a strangled voice as he’s lifted upwards, the man places his free hand on Nick’s chest, and thrusts his body down.

Into the casket.

His head bounces against the pillow, he uses the momentum to sit up–but the lid is shut tight, his forehead meets a hard surface, with an impact that reminds him of the last time he was in a box with similar dimensions. 

Perhaps it’s the padding, but this one seems _smaller. _

Although, this coffin isn’t entirely padding, there’s a small window, that would give the mourners the perfect view of his terrified, petrified face as the padding seems to harden beneath him, as the yellow glow from the room’s lights turn green, as he feels something _crawling under his skin _and it itches and itches and burns and burns and his legs don’t quite fit, he has to cross his arms, else they are awkwardly extended at his sides, he can’t move, can’t _breathe–_

“HEY! LET ME OUT!” he screams, pounds his hands against the lid, praying that this lunatic would realize what he’s doing, open the lid, turn himself in. 

Fat chance, as instead, his attacker’s face appears in front of the lid, a sinister grin spreading ear to ear. He hears the sound of chains dragging across the wooden surface on the outside of his entrapment, followed by a devastating _click!_

“Sweet dreams,” he chuckles as he sprinkles dirt on top of the glass. 

* * *

“Nick?” Grissom calls out. He locates his forgotten kit, but sees Nick’s open just a few feet away, its contents spilled out onto the floor. He remembers that Nick had at least one bag of evidence ready as he left the man, but the bag is nowhere to be found. Perhaps Nick was finished processing, heading towards his car?

But, no, Grissom would have seen him on his way back in. 

And that wouldn’t explain the individual swab left lying on the floor. 

He puts a hand to his heart, feels the sharp increase in what was previously a slow-building pulse, as he tells himself,_ no, this isn’t happening. Not again._

He hears a thud in another room. 

And then another.

And another.

And then, a blood-curdling scream that stops his heart. 

He follows the noise, and enters a room filled with caskets. 

It doesn’t take him long to identify which casket his employee is entrapped in, as there’s one that’s vibrating, wrapped in chains, sealed closed with a small lock. 

“Nick!” 

He runs over, instinctively places a hand on the lid, his heart starts and stops and starts and stops in rapid fashion as he brushes away a small pile of dirt–_why is there a pile of dirt? _he wonders, as with a traditional coffin, Nick wouldn’t be able to see the dirt that must have been scattered on top as a morbid tease.

But as his fingers brush off the lid, coming to a rest and halt on the revealed glass, his question is answered as he realizes, whether the attacker intended to or not, that Nick was made to believe he was buried alive. 

Again.

“Nicky, hey–” Grissom taps on the glass, trying to appeal to a shaken, whimpering Nick Stokes, whose eyes are shut tight, his face frozen in a grimace. “Hang on, I’m going to get you out of there–”

He looks at the lock, it needs a key. 

Simple task. Lock, key, unlock the lock, open the lid, get Nick out.

But it’s not so simple, there’s no key in sight, Nick’s whimpers are getting louder, turning into cries of pain, he’s knocking over empty caskets and urns, desperately searching for the key or a clue to its whereabouts, all the while calling Nick’s name, trying to appeal to his senses, debates whether he should leave the room, get help, but Nick’s _screaming _now, and Grissom runs to his side once more. 

Like a father running to a newborn child, trapped in the confines of a crib. 

“Nicky, I’m going to get you out okay? It’s going to be okay, just _breathe–”_

_“Can’t-can’t-can’t-can’t!” _Nick mutters. He wonders if Nick had truly heard him, or if he was muttering that he can’t do…anything. Can’t move. Can’t escape. Can’t breathe. 

He feels something twist his insides as he realizes just how helpless his in this situation, too. He can’t talk to Nick. Can’t open the lid. Can’t take the weight of the world off of Nick’s shoulders.

Just like before, all Grissom can do, is _watch._

No, that’s not _all _he can do. 

He can _talk _to Nick. 

Even if he’s not listening, even if he can’t actually _hear _Grissom, Grissom can still _talk to Nick, _tell him it’s going to be okay, offer all the words of comfort he would have given them if that damn video feed had an two-way audio component. 

He can appeal to him, just as he did the last time they were separated by glass, the last time Nick was lost to delirium. 

He doesn’t have time to contemplate about how he never thought he’d have to use this intimate nickname again, one that was shared between a father and son.

Not between a mentor and mentee. 

“Pancho. _Pancho, hey, listen,” _he raises his voice just a little higher than Nick’s stuttering panic. 

Unlike last time, it doesn’t work right away. 

Or maybe it does.

But Nick keeps whimpering, raises a shaking fist to rap at the glass surface in front of him, before unfurling, revealing bloodied fingers that splay against the glass. 

Grissom gets the message, and puts his hand directly on top of Nick’s.

“I am not losing you again. I _promise,”_ he tells Nick.

Through his hysteria, Nick manages a nod. 

He briefly wonders if Nick or himself would be able to punch through the glass window, though a quick focus on the scratch marks indicate to him that Nick probably tried, and if he didn’t was scared that the invisible dirt would engulf him whole if he did. 

And even if they did open the window, all that would do is give Nick some air. 

It wouldn’t snap him out of the sheer terror that Grissom could never even come close to imagining, not even in nightmares. 

And neither of them would probably be able to pry open the wood, get Nick out, without the assistance of some sort of tool that was not readily available.

He makes a phone call, with a sense of rush and importance that he reserves only for the most dire situations, to Brass, the only person he trusts to treat the situation with the weight of Nick’s life-or-death hanging in the balance.

But as the hands on his watch continue to tick, tick, _tick _away the seconds, the minutes that pass by as he tries to shout for the officer’s attention, who was supposed to be both clearing the building and assisting Grissom–_where the hell is that crowbar–_he realizes that Nick is _losing air_.

They can’t wait any longer.

He takes the gun out of his holster, takes aim, and shoots off the lock, with an unheard warning to Nick of his intent, praying that the bullet doesn’t enter the casket by accident. 

Ignoring the ringing in this ears, feeling a shallow cut in his skin from his improper firing technique, he quickly fumbles with the chain, throws it to the ground, opens the latch–

And Nick flops out of the coffin like a fish out of water, his arms crossed, fingers scratching at his skin, _bloody skin, _as Grissom observes multiple scratches up and down his arms. Doesn’t take any and all of his educated knowledge to know _why _he has all of those scratches, how he might have been thrown into a horrific flashback, an army of invisible ants that make him crawl backwards, taking bountiful, deep breaths.

Until he bumps back into another coffin, and he looks up to Grissom with absolute desperation.

_“Get me out of here,”_ he pleads with his mentor, in a meek, cracked voice that makes Grissom scoop him into his arms, guide him out of the room, out of the funeral home.

Out of hell.

“T-think I-I…s-scratched the guy tha’…tha’ did thisss…” he stutters as they exit into the cold Nevada night. Grissom takes off his jacket, wraps it around Nick, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate all of the watchful eyes on his scratched arms. 

The test results would reveal in a few hours that the only DNA under Nick’s fingernails came from his own blood. 


End file.
